Tommy’s voice was panicky, terrified. ‘Will I go to hell?’
‘No, not if you believe in the Lord Jesus Christ and ask him to forgive your sins.’
‘I do!’ Tommy cried. ‘I believe in him, but will God forgive me?’
‘Yes, Tommy, he will,’ said Poole. ‘As he forgives the sins of all of us who believe in his mercy.’
Poole put his hands on the boy’s shoulders and lowered his voice. Hornbeam guessed the two of them were probably saying the Lord’s Prayer together. After a minute Poole blessed Tommy then walked down the steps, leaving Tommy alone on the scaffold.
Doye looked at Hornbeam, and Hornbeam nodded.
Doye said to Ivinson: ‘Do it.’
Ivinson lifted his sledgehammer, swung it back, then accurately struck the oak prop, so that it flew sideways. The platform swung down and hit the base of the scaffold with a bang. Tommy dropped, then the rope went taut and the noose tightened around his neck.
The crowd let out a collective moan of pity.
Tommy opened his mouth, to scream or breathe, but he could do neither. He was still alive: the fall had not broken his neck, perhaps because he was too light in weight, and instead of instant death he now began to suffer slow strangulation. He wriggled desperately, as if his movements might free him, and he began to swing to and fro. His eyes seemed to bulge and his face turned red. The seconds passed with agonizing slowness.
Many people in the crowd were weeping.
Tommy’s eyes did not close, but gradually his movements became feeble and stopped. The small body swung through a decreasing arc.At last Ivinson reached up and felt Tommy’s wrist. He paused a few moments, then nodded to Doye.
Doye turned to the crowd and said: ‘The boy is dead.’
The crowd were not going to riot, Hornbeam could see. The mood was sorrowful, not furious. Several black looks were directed his way but no one spoke to him. They began to disperse, and Hornbeam turned homewards.
When he arrived his family were having breakfast. Young Joe was at the table. He was a bit young to eat with the grown-ups, but Hornbeam was fond of the boy. He had a napkin under his chin, and was eating scrambled eggs.
Hornbeam sipped coffee with cream. He took some toast and buttered it, but ate only one bite.
Deborah said quietly: ‘I assume the deed has been done.’
‘Yes.’
‘And it all went off without trouble?’
‘Yes.’
They were speaking in generalities, to avoid upsetting Joe, but he was too smart for them. ‘Tommy Pidgeon has been hanged and now he’s dead,’ the boy said brightly.
His father, Howard, said: ‘Who told you that?’
‘They were talking about it in the kitchen.’
Hornbeam muttered: ‘They should know better – in front of a child.’
Joe said: ‘Grandpa, why did he have to be hanged?’
Howard said: ‘Don’t pester your grandpa when he’s drinking his coffee.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Hornbeam. ‘The boy might as well know the facts of life.’ He turned to Joe. ‘He was hanged because he was a thief.’
That was not enough for Joe. ‘They say he stole because he was hungry.’
‘That’s probably true.’
‘Perhaps he couldn’t help it.’
